


Opium Jewels

by VoidofRoses



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Other, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-01-31 11:16:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12680784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidofRoses/pseuds/VoidofRoses
Summary: AU - Thomson and Thompson find themselves prisoners aboard the drug smuggling ship, theKaraboujan, and at the mercy of the Marlinspike Gang.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into the Tintin fandom. Inspired by a kink meme prompt.

The floor seemed to rock underneath him as he woke, a small groan leaving. Confound it but he was getting sick of being knocked out today! Thomson moved his dry mouth, the heady smell of chloroform still in his nose and on his moustache, wriggling it and sniffing. Salt air, damp but definitely salt air. They must be down by the docks still. His fingers flexed in his bonds, the familiar weight of his bowler hat absent from his head, and something else was missing.

Thompson!

“That’s right,” he muttered to himself, glancing around. His surroundings weren’t pretty – a cage designed to hold dangerous animals more than humans, the room dark bar the light peeking through the porthole, but the crates stacked around the cage were unmistakable; a red crab with a gold circle background on them. They’d been chasing a lead when…

Snarling and barking made Thomson jump as a black Labrador stuck its nose through the cage bars, teeth bared and snapping before it pulled back and he got a better look at it through the dark. Its hackles raised, it snarled and started pacing, pawing at the cage.

“Milou! _Assez_!”

The voice cut through the dark, sharp and a bark all of its own. The dog – Milou, Thomson had realised by this time – stopped pawing at his cage and whined, turning around and running into the shadows. A moment later, the cage opened and Thompson was thrown in by a big burly man with a bushy black beard.

“Thompson!” he shouted, voice croaking as his partner landed beside him with a groan. He couldn’t see very well in the dark, but he assumed that something had been done to him due to the tone of his grunts as he sat himself up, shaking his head. Something wet landed on Thomson’s face as he received a rather weak reply.

“I-I’m alright, Thomson. Just a bit roughed up mind.”

“Your turn, ya lily livered landlubber.” The gruff voice of their captor broke any response he was going to give, English marred with a thick Scottish brogue, and Thomson found himself hauled up into the air like he was a fish on a hook, trussed like a hog and shouldered by the bushy bearded man. Their cage was unceremoniously slammed locked, and Milou was looking after them as he was carried out the room and into a hallway.

“I say, let me go! I can walk myself, thank you very much!”

“Ah shut yer yap.” A smack to his bottom left Thomson flustered and having trouble finding his words – as though he was a boy in his mother’s lap! Really! – and the Scotsman growled. “The boss’ll be done with you soon enough, an’ then we’ll be sendin’ ye off.”

Thomson didn’t like the way he chuckled at that, the sound making his shoulders rumble with the laugh as he was carried up a set of stairs. They passed another floor, the sound of a woman singing reaching his ears and the man carrying him grumbled something under his breath about “accursed woman” and “blistering blue barnacles”. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Bianca Castafiore – a.k.a world renowned jewel thief, the Milanese Nightingale – just within reach, before he was swung off the man’s shoulder and shoved into a room.

The captain’s quarters.

The sound of metal hitting wood made him look up to the desk, able to see the bottom of booted feet from where they were propped up there, before he was hauled to his own by a hand roughly grabbing hold of the back of his button up. There, bored as though he had nothing better to do in the world, looking as boyish as ever with his quiffed ginger hair and bright blue eyes, was none other than…

“Tintin!”

“How nice of you to join us, sir,” he drawled, English heavily laden with his French accent, and yet he still didn’t look at Thomson, chin resting in his upturned hand, elbow on the armrest of his chair. His other hand reached for the knife stuck in the desk, yanking it free. “Thank you, _Capitain_ , for delivering him.”

A grunt was his answer, and he looked over his shoulder to see Archibald Haddock – captain of the _Karaboujan_ , a smuggling ship that had been in their sights for months – lean against the door, crossing his arms. Another ‘thok’ noise drew his attention back to the other, the ring leader of the Marlinspike Gang, once again stabbing the knife into the desk before rising from his chair, but moving to sit on the edge of the desk. He looked childishly young, nimble fingers picking the knife from the desk once more and examining the blade.

“Thompson didn’t speak very well. I wonder if you’ll be more rewarding, _Monsieur_.”

Blue eyes looked at him curiously, and a savage grin blossomed over Tintin’s face. He slid off the desk, three quarters rising slightly with the motion before they dropped again around his calfs, one hand finding his pocket. The closer he got, the better Thomson could see the knife, even in the dim light of the captain’s quarters, and he saw blood on a handkerchief hanging from Tintin’s pocket. He knelt on one knee in front of him, spare hand roughly grabbing his button up and yanking him forward, a dark tone to his voice.

“Tell me, _Monsieur_ , how much have you and yours found out?”

“Found out about what?” Thomson surprised himself with a surprisingly calm response, squaring his shoulders. He understood what had happened to Thompson now - hey, he wasn’t a detective for nothing – and he stared Tintin down.

Tintin hummed cheerfully, as though they were talking about the weather, and shoved him away, causing him to sprawl by Haddock’s feet while Tintin himself sat back on the edge of the desk, perching there like he wasn’t interrogating a police officer. Somewhere in the background, Bianca Castafiore’s voice broke through the wooden walls of the ship. “I know you’re not dumb, Thomson. You wouldn’t be a detective if you really were the bumbling _imbécile_ you portray yourself as.” Tintin tilted his head, looking at him with some fascination. “What secrets you hold, I wonder.”

“It’ll take more than a bit of roughing up to make me talk.”

“Good.” The same savage smile curled on Tintin’s lips. “I was hoping that would be the case.”

\--------------------------------

“I don’t get it,” Haddock began later, when they were done with Thomson and he was back in the holding cell with Thompson. He raised a pipe to his lips, lighting it and leaning forward in his chair, watching the young lad where he was standing near the porthole, looking out. “Why not make done with them? We don’t need the police on our tail.”

“Because, _mon capitain_ ,” Tintin drawled, a smirk on his lips as he watched Thomson and Thompson crawl out a lower porthole, fingers stilling where he was stroking Milou’s head as his dog leaned against him. “People like them should be made examples of. Letting them think it’s their idea to escape and come after us is the thrill of the chase.”

“I swear you’re going to get us all killed or thrown in jail one day, boy,” Haddock growled around his pipe, fingers reaching for the bottle of Loch Lomond on the desk and sitting himself back, arm dangling over his armrest with the bottle between his fingers.

Tintin laughed at him, shoulders shaking with amusement. “You say that as though we aren’t already doing illegal things like smuggling opium, creating weapons of mass destruction for terrorist organisations and shipping a jewel thief around with us, capitain.” He slunk over towards him, Milou laying on the floor now with a huff, and slid his arm over the back of Haddock’s chair, leaning into him. “Besides which,” he murmured into his ear, fingers gingerly picking the bottle of whisky from his hand and placing it back on the desk, then plucked the pipe from his lips and leaned in close, breathing briskly, “Whatever would you do without me?”

Kissing him, he tasted whisky and tobacco, fingers wandering down his chest and larger hands grabbing hold of his hips, pulling him directly into the captain’s lap. Fingers reached up, tangling in thick dark hair and Haddock growled into the kiss. Damn him. Damn this whelp of a boy. But, he hated to admit it, he probably would have gotten caught by now if it weren’t for Tintin’s contacts.

And he knew. Knew he would follow the ring leader into Hell and back if he so commanded him to.

Curse his loyal heart, and curse Tintin while he was at it. The rotten snake curled his claws into people and refused to let them go, evidenced by the jewel thief in his ship, the mad scientist in his mansion. His fingers rose to the back of the boy’s neck, pulling him back by the hair and receiving a grin for it.

Tintin ran a tight ship, and Archibald Haddock was the man at the wheel.

-FIN-


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archibald Haddock finds a bright eyed, ginger haired stowaway on his ship. Contains elements of The Crab With the Golden Claws and Secret of the Unicorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should really be writing my NaNo story... /sighs/ oh well

Archibald Haddock pinched his nose, leaning back in the seat at his desk, pipe dangling from his lips. There was nothing he disliked more, except maybe for policemen, than stowaways on his ship.

Especially when they claimed they weren’t doing anything wrong.

He eyed the boy – for that was what he was, just a boy, with quiffed ginger hair and bright blue eyes – who sat in the seat opposite his desk, legs swinging aimlessly and a small cheerful hum in his throat. He’d been let out of his bindings when he’d sworn not to do anything, despite having knocked out half the crew and had his dog bite the other half. Speaking of which, the big black Labrador snarled at him from its master’s side, hackles raised and shoulders hunched before a hand landed on one. It whined before it settled down on the floor of the captain’s quarters, head between its paws.

“I’ll ask you again; what are you doin’ on my ship?”

He said it slowly, so that the boy could understand him. It seemed like he didn’t speak a lick of English, despite the banter that he’d had with O’Connell in Irish Gaelic when the ship hand had swung at him. The lad licked his lips, tilting his head as he stared owlishly at him, and then started speaking in French. “ _Je me cachais_ ,” he said simply, scratching a finger under his nose, then cleared his throat. “’ow you say… _hiding_."

“I’ll be darned, he speaks,” Haddock mumbled around his pipe, leaning forward in his seat. “From who, lad?”

“ _La police_.”

Now that? That was a word Haddock understood in just about every language. His hair bristled at the back of his neck, and for a moment he mimicked the boy’s dog, teeth bared around his pipe. “I swear if you led them to my ship, boy…”

The ginger runt shook his head. “ _Non_. I was not followed, of that I am sure.” He eyed the pistol sitting at the edge of Haddock’s desk, then smiled. “I made sure.”

The smile and the words chilled Haddock to the bone. Sure, he lived on a ship of braggarts and henchmen, but none of them said such things in such a cheerful way. He leaned back, one leg crossing over the other. What to do with the boy. It was obvious he belonged in some kind of mental asylum, but they were thousands of miles out into the wide open sea. He could just have him thrown overboard, but some nagging feeling made him think that he’d just find his way back. “Do y’know where this ship is headed?”

“ _Oui_. I hear Bagghar is beautiful this time of year.” He smiled again, legs stilling in their movement. “Especially for drug runs.” Haddock’s eyes narrowed, fingers curling around his pipe as his shoulders tightened. The boy seemed to sense it, because at that moment, he dropped all pretence of being nice, coiled like a spring. Or a snake. “All I want is passage, _Monsieur_ , and I will not raise the alarm on your… _opération_.”

The way the dog was growling suggested that he had no choice. The way Haddock saw it, he had two options. One, let the boy tag along to Bagghar and then let some other unfortunate soul deal with him, or two, kill him here and now. The dog got a wary glance, and the boy laughed, reaching down to pat its head. “I would not worry. Milou is harmless. Of course, unless harm come to me that is.”

“…Alright. I’ll take you as far as Bagghar. On one condition.” At the prompting of that, the boy leaned forward in his seat. “You pull your weight around here. I’ll not have lollygaggers on my ship, stowaways or not.”

“You have yourself a deal, _mon capitain_.”

\------------------

Archibald Haddock soon found out that Tintin, for that was the boy’s name, was a hard worker, despite his age and scrawniness. He could keep up with the other men when the waves were rough, and wasn’t that bad in an arm wrestle after dinner either. The men were certainly entertained by his tall tales – it seemed he’d been all over the world from Egypt to America to China and back again. They were all charmed by this bilge-rat.

Fifteen days into their journey to Bagghar from Brussels, while Allan was bringing him his evening whisky, Tintin stepped into the captain’s quarters after he left with a batter of his baby blue eyes, Milou at his heels skulking in the shadows of the ship. Taking the offered seat, he offered the boy a glass of Loch Lomond, leaning back in his own seat when, suddenly;

“I believe that there seems to be a planned _mutinerie_ , _mon capitain_.”

Haddock nearly spat the whisky in his mouth out, instead swallowing it and raising his wrist to his mouth to wipe any drooling out. “ _Billions of blistering_ …how dare you accuse my crew of such blasphemous…!”

“Not crew, _capitain_ , just a couple of men.” Tintin cradled his glass with both his hands, ignoring Milou’s attempts to paw it out of him, voice calm. “I overheard Allan and Tom in the radio room, calling Interpol. Why do you think Allan’s personally been delivering your whisky every night?”

The Captain saw red. Tintin actually had to duck when the bottle of Loch Lomond went flying, hitting the door behind him, and the glass following shortly after. “That…that _mutinous_ …! Just how long has this been going on?!”

“If I could, how long has he been personally bringing you your drink?”

“Since…” Since they’d left England, shortly before briefly stopping in Brussels to pick up the cargo. Haddock snarled, reaching to roll the sleeves of his naval jacket up as he stood from his seat and stalked past the desk, before a smaller hand stopped him. Tintin’s grip was like iron, and it did little to calm the rage he was feeling. “Let me go, you son of a fucking…”

“Please, _mon capitain_ , hear me.” He wasn’t looking at him, just gazing into the whisky in his glass. “It would be so much sweeter if they have no idea that you know. If you speak to them now, they will be able to alert Interpol before we even reach Bagghar.”

“What do you suggest, then, if you’re so intent on running my ship for me, _gosse_?”

Tintin’s fingers uncurled from Haddock’s bicep, frowning a little at the title but crossing one leg over the other, raising his glass to his lips. “Let him think you’re good and drunk. I’ll jump him from behind. Then you can begin your interrogation.”

\-------------------

It went as well as it had sounded.

Once Allan was knocked out, he left Tintin to take care of Tom while he tied up his First Mate, making sure the ropes were good and sturdy. The captain’s quarters were nice and private for this. Nobody would disturb him as long as the door was closed. When Tom was brought in, dragged by the scruff of his shirt, they were tied up separately, and Allan was woken with a glass of water to his face. He spluttered, working his jaw as he woke, shifting to raise his hand to the back of his head before realising that it was impossible. Glancing over his shoulder, Allan wriggled his arms, then noticed the body laying on the floor behind him slightly to the left. “Tom! What the bloody hell…”

“Glad to see yer with the livin’, Allan.” The voice made him turn his head, looking to see Haddock sitting at his desk with one hand propping his head up. The stowaway sat on the edge of his desk, perched like a bird, dog at his feet, and Allan paled. “Ah, so you figure out what this is about, eh?”

“Look, boss, I can explain…”

“Fool me once, shame on you.” Tintin slid from the desk, walking over to the two with Milou loping along behind him in his long gait, but the Captain remained where he was, hands coming together to crack his knuckles. “But fool me twice?”

“I-It’s not what you think...”

“I found notes by the radio.” The ginger haired boy knelt near Tom, gingerly reaching to tilt the man’s head with the tip of his gun that he’d pulled out from its holster on his belt. “In your handwriting. Anyone can read Morse if they really want to. Orders to get the _capitain_ drunk enough to gain control of the _Karaboujan_ , so you can turn it into Interpol when we reach Bagghar, get out with a minimum sentence?”

“Damnit, Allan, what kind of an old fool do you take me for?” Slamming his fist onto the desk, Haddock rose, tilting his head and cracking his neck, staring the other man down as he walked around the piece of furniture. “You know nobody leaves my crew without payin’ a price.”

“Y-you’re really going to listen to some baby faced assassin over me? _Christ_ , Archie, how long have we known each other?”

“See, I thought that myself to start with, but then I started addin’ up the pieces.” Haddock crouched down, using his hand to wrench Allan’s hair back and earning himself a grunt. “You never really liked the fact that we were smugglin’ opium on the side, an’ knowing Tom I knew he’d be behind you a hundred percent, married at th’ hip like ya are.” He tilted his head, looking at the man curiously. “What’d they offer you, Allan? A quiet life in the countryside after your sentence? No trouble in prison?”

Allan was thrown back and punched, fist connecting with his jaw solidly and a sickening crack sounding through the captain’s cabin. Tintin let out a low whistle, clapping and demanding an encore that Haddock was only too glad to give him again and again, until his hand and Allan’s face were covered in blood. He hauled the brunet man up by the collar of his trench coat, hissing in his ear. “You’ve cost me thousands of dollars. Tell me how I should reward you?”

His response was a spit of blood in his face.

Haddock wiped it off with a low growl, shoving him down and standing, spitting back. Tintin nudged Tom with the tip of his boot as he stepped over, making sure he was still unconscious, and stood next to him, rocking on the balls of his feet. “How would you like to handle them, _capitain_?” His voice was a low purr, tapping his gun to the tip of his chin. “Shoot them? Gut them like a fish?”

“Nay, laddie. We throw people overboard here on the ocean.” A creak of bones and Allan was knocked out again, Haddock leaning down to divest him of his wallet and gun, tossing them to his desk and hauling the man up to his shoulder. “Pick Tom’s pockets and bring him with you.”

“That may be a bit, ah, _difficile_.” Turning his attention to the boy, Tintin simply gestured to his body, making Haddock sigh and roll his eyes. Nonetheless, he crouched, rummaging around in Tom’s trousers and undershirt, before he retrieved a wallet with a smirk. Flipping it open, he stood, Haddock crouching down to pick Tom’s limp body up and tuck it under his arm with a grunt, standing as well. With Milou in tow, the two of them left the captain’s cabin, making their way to the upper deck.

In the dead of night, they tossed the two men overboard, anchored to each other. With the added weight, they should be dead within the next fifteen minutes. Haddock brushed his hands off as they walked back down below, turning his head to look at the boy with a raised eyebrow. “What’re ya still lookin’ at his wallet for, laddie? Tom was never one to keep much on him.”

“This, _mon capitain_.” Tintin handed a slip of paper to him, and Haddock was almost afraid to take it, as it looked so fragile. In the dim light of the lanterns, he could barely make out writing, mumbling under his breath.

“…Three Unicorns in…well, I dinnae know Tom had a penchant for poetry.”

Tintin shook his head, then retrieved his own wallet from the back pocket of his trousers. Fishing, he lifted a piece of paper the same length, handing it over. “ _Non_. I found this when I ransacked a man’s house. Sakharine, I believe his name was. Kept it in a safe.” Taking the paper from the boy, he tapped his chin as Haddock placed one on top of the other, expecting to be able to read something else when…

“Blistering barnacles! The words are lining up!” Before he could say anymore, a small hand clamped over his mouth, causing him to look at Tintin who raised his finger to his lips, though he pushed it off. “Boy, do you know what you’ve got here?” A shaken head was his answer, and Haddock continued. “My great great granddaddy was a pirate, hunted down gold and doubloons an’ all sorts of treasure on his ship, the Unicorn. Francis Haddock was one of the most feared pirates in the world, but his boat was sunk on his way home from a run by the red coats. His treasure’s still on the bottom of the seaboard, and when he was dying he gave his three sons a model ship, designed after the Unicorn.”

Tintin’s eyes lit up, and Haddock could see a change in them. A hungry sort of change, one that spoke of danger and adventure. “Are you saying, _capitain_ , that…”

“M’boy, forget opium. We’re about to discover the treasure of a lifetime.”

 

-FIN-


End file.
